


untitled swan princess story

by MaryPSue



Series: Almost Original [2]
Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Original Work
Genre: Animal Transformation, Based on a Tumblr Post, Gen, Humor, Untitled Goose Game References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23056732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: So there I was. A swan. With no idea what to do with myself. I mean, all the countercurses I know require the caster to have arms....A princess, transformed by sorcery, discovers the perks of being a big, mean, bastardous bird.
Series: Almost Original [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680838
Comments: 30
Kudos: 105





	untitled swan princess story

**Author's Note:**

> From [prokopetz' post](https://prokopetz.tumblr.com/post/190402203012/concept-fairy-tale-where-the-wicked-step-parent): 
> 
> _Concept: fairy tale where the wicked step-parent (who is of course also some sort of warlock) transforms the princess into a swan, as one does, but rather than running off to mope around in a lake and be beautifully tragic, the princess decides to stick around the palace and cause problems on purpose._
> 
> I changed the step-parent to an evil usurping uncle because I Simply Did Not Vibe With the original.

In my defense, who turns somebody they want to get rid of into a _swan_ , anyway?

Like. Swans are gigantic, territorial, feather-clad balls of muscle and hatred. Also, magic is expensive and complicated and makes you grow an ugly little goatee - although maybe that’s just my uncle. Why would you even bother? Like, poison is _right there_. 

Of course, unfortunately, my uncle has always subscribed to the philosophy of ‘why be evil if you can’t be dramatic about it?’.

So there I was. A swan. With no idea what to do with myself. I mean, all the countercurses I know require the caster to have arms.

Now, for the record, I have nothing in particular against swans. I mean, no more than the average swan has against the average person, which is to say, I fear, hate, and distrust them. But that’s just logical. I have a healthy sense of self-preservation, thank you _very_ much. It’s the only thing that’s kept me from being swan-ified - or worse - up until now. 

I’ll say this for growing up with an evil, usurping sorcerer uncle - you learn from a _very young age_ to keep your head on a swivel. Either that, or you don’t get to do much growing up at all. 

So, like I said, I don’t have anything in particular against swans. But I _do_ hate swimming. Something to do with the Incident where an army of corpses tried to drag me down to the depths of a drowned battlefield when I was eleven or so, probably. I still don’t know why my dad kept letting my uncle take me on so many field trips. I mean, we always went somewhere like the Mountains of Death or the Caves of No Return or IKEA, and something like this happened _every single time_. And the man is obviously, laughably evil. Just look at that goatee!

Anyway. I’m getting off track. 

So the village pond was Out, as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t taking any chances on paddling around where any skeletal hands could close around my scaly yellow ankles and yank. Also, it turns out other swans don’t like me much. Which is fine, because I’m not such a fan of other swans, either. Did I mention swans are territorial? Well, swans are territorial. _Especially_ when they’re nesting.

And also, all of the villagers I ran into seemed really quite menacing and untrustworthy for some reason. Not sure if that had to do with the fact that I’d finally been caught off my guard and betrayed, with devastating consequences, by someone who had been trying to do away with me for as long as I could remember but who my own father, who should have had my safety as his top priority, still trusted wholeheartedly no matter what I said or did, or if it was just a swan thing. 

I’m gonna put it down to a swan thing.

Turns out, there are a _lot_ of swan things. Did you know I have teeth on my bill? Like I need more ways to put the hurt on anything stupid enough to move within a ten-foot radius of my enormous wingspan. Also, I hate bicycles now. Giant spinny wheely things zipping around at speeds nothing was meant to go, _hissing_ at me like they own the place. If I see a bicycle, I’m gonna fuck it up. I can do that. Did you know I can break a man’s arm with a single blow of my wing? And don’t tell me that’s apocryphal. I tested it out. On my uncle. Apparently the swan thing was just Step One of a plan with at least two steps. His bad for thinking it’d be easier to catch a princess _after_ he’d turned her into a swan.

Hiss hiss, motherfucker. 

Anyway. 

For the record, I _did_ consider fleeing into the woods, where I might be taken in by a kindly woodcutter or possibly a pack of unbearably adorable woodland creatures, and could lurk until some puffed-up prince who was a little too interested in the practicalities of the Leda myth for comfort happened to wander through. There were just two little problems with that line of logic, though. One, swans are gigantic, territorial, feather-clad balls of muscle and hatred. Not exactly the most adoptable. Also, two, gay here. I’ve put a lot of concerted effort over the years into avoiding falling into situations that might necessitate a prince. (Turns out that when you’ve got an evil usurping sorcerer uncle, those situations crop up _way more often than you’d think_.)

So the woods were out. The village was out. Going back to the palace seemed like it was obviously out, because I do have, like I mentioned, a sense of self-preservation. I’d only broken my uncle’s arm, unfortunately, not his neck. Whatever else he was planning for me, I’m guessing it had been updated to include ‘roasting on a spit with a nice orange glaze’. And because I didn’t feel like having my breastbone made into a harp or whatever, I figured it was probably best to steer clear. I like my vengeance while I’m alive to enjoy it, thanks. 

I say going back to the palace _seemed_ like it was obviously out. Because, see, I forgot something important.

Swans are really hard to tell apart.

At least, swans are really hard for _humans_ to tell apart. Because you’d have to get close enough to see the details that let you tell us apart, and - did I mention that swans are really territorial? And also that I have teeth on my beak?

Also important: the palace has a big square right inside the walls, where everybody takes their stalls and carts and stuff for market day. It’s just a big, open, grassy bit with a big, wide fountain in the middle. Perfect for takeoffs and landings. 

(Quick sidebar: flying? _Awesome_. I don’t recommend getting cursed, but if you can’t avoid it, definitely go for one that turns you into some variation of bird. Unless it’s flightless, like an emu or a cassowary or something. Although on the other hand, cassowaries have those sick hind claws that can disembowel a man like it’s no big thing and - hey, actually, can I trade this curse in? Forget swans, I want to be a cassowary.)

Anyway. Point is, the palace already _has_ swans. They like to squat in the memorial fountain for my mother like the horrible intruders they are and slime up the sculptures of her little dogs with their extraordinarily foul-smelling excrement and hiss at anybody with the bad luck to have to pass by to get to chapel. 

Of course, they don’t like me much and I don’t have much use for them either. But they provide excellent cover.

My uncle’s been stalking and plotting against me for my entire life. My father’s been no help at all. I’ve had to sleep with one eye open and a dagger under my pillow since my mother died, constantly looking over my shoulder, never knowing what kind of horrible thing’s about to come flying out of left field and try to eat my face. That can really do a number on a girl.

But now I’m not a girl. Now I’m a swan.

And it’s long past time I gave my uncle a taste of his own medicine.

Let _him_ look over his shoulder for a while. Let him think he’s safe, with me out of the way. I can be patient. And then, when he least expects it, I will strike. Let him live in fear, under the palace swans’ beady gaze. Let him wonder, every time he misses some small but important object, every time he slips in bird shit, every time he finds his bicycle mysteriously mangled, whether it’s me.

I can go wherever I want, now, without having to worry about assassins or guards or princes or flying monkeys or my father disapproving. Who’s going to know it’s me? Only my uncle, and he can’t tell anybody unless he wants to find out what a public execution looks like from the other side.

And who’s going to stop me? Nobody who likes having unbroken arms, that’s who. I can raid the kitchens if I want. I can eat _as much meringue as I want._ I can shit all over the nave of the chapel, if I feel like it. I can chase people to break up the changing of the guard and fly off with all my needlepoint and drop it in the pond and bite my father _right_ in the butt, if I feel like it.

They’ll _all_ learn not to underestimate me. To live always wondering what terrible thing’s coming next, and where it’ll spring on them from. My uncle tried to put a curse on me? Joke’s on him. I _am_ a curse. And I’m here to stay.

It’s a beautiful day in the palace.

And I am a horrible swan.


End file.
